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Tony 'Veyron'
Tony 'Veyron' (deceased) was the Tycoon of his franchise business Blacklabel Syndicate, his leadership was loosely authoritarian allowing any member of the crew to expand and develop their business as freely as they wish, and commonly refers to it as "Their own playground." He has grown his franchise into what it is known today, a prodigious trading corporation that seeks and alliances with other crews, to improve their rather successful and growing economic standing. Appearance Tony has a casual height to him a bout an inch taller, normal stature, long hair that he combs to the back of his head, one-piercing on both ears and doesn't seem to be balding or aging yet, for his age, and can be seen wearing standard military attire. Wearing normally brown plate, and complimenting him a Black Hat that was been worn out and used many times, as well as one shoulder-piece that he shines and polishes daily, and has a tattoo of his company's logo on his left wrist, labeling "V"... Personality Tony's personality, is rather sympathetic, but when triggered he can be rather tough and that of a dated mobster, being that of what he was, he is typically a rather common Tycoon. He can be labeled as a devious, yet intelligent goblin, and ruthless at times. Tony doesn't drink alcoholic frequently, but chooses to smoke cigars. He has admiration for those willing to work their selves out of the poverty lifestyle that they might live in, being that he was once poor and desperate for answers at one point in time himself. Tony can be known to take many life-altering choices, some rather dangerous. Tony involves himself in the media when big events occur often giving commoners answers to their questions caring for their well being, as well as giving newspapers the information that they require. Tony often doesn't take easy to seeing others sell their merchandise on his property without a proper Tariff placed or some kind of agreement before hand, and often relays this information to his Baron and other boonies to question them and take authoritative action if they don't comply. Background Where it all Began Tony 'Veyron' was born and raised in the slums of Kezan, his father George Veyron a former kingpin and a later renowned Ace-Driver along with his wife, Vivian Veyron, Tony's mother; an Ace-Pilot who operated and did engineering work on planes. Tony's father named him after a sports hotrod model that he had recently worked with and raced against many competitors along the way, winning him multiple races and awards, along with his reputable ways as a kingpin, thus entering him into the cartel business which ultimately signed him his death warrant later down into the years, working his way up to become a notorious kingpin of a undisclosed syndicate. Diary of what became 'The Syndicate'... Diary literature's dated back when Tony was just around the age of a dubious child and young-adult age. Life with mum’ and pup were always great, we were planning on venturing out for a vacation ‘cause pop had just retired as an Ace Driver from the League an’ he was at another prime in his life wit’ mum an’ all. They seemed so happy to be finally movin’ on to bigger an’ better things with the company until one tragic fuckin’ night I remember as if it happened gat’ damn yesterday, the visions in my head are as vivid as they could possibly be, perhaps too fuckin’ vivid. It was one late night mom an’ pup had just cribbed me in my flamboyant crib cradle that was loosely latched so I could very easily crawl outta’. My door had been just cracked so little that a beaming light would pierce through the entirety of my room when any lights were outside my room. It was a rather eerie night, the city of Kezan an’ the slums were rather quiet no sound of hotrods on the highway just northwest of my house an’ a small park where the local footbomb coaches an’ players would normally bring their abnormally souped-up shredders an’ their fucking spoiled rich cars would veer off further into the city and the echoes would be heard from anywhere. However, on this peculiar day it was abnormally quiet. I could hear mum an’ pup fighting for something I was completely unaware of in their room just a few steps away from mines, a master room wit’ a water bed I loved to jump on when I had the time do so. Anyways, being the curious little bambino youngster I was, I unlatched my crib’s door mechanism so then it would drop down, making it easy for me to escape an’ check out what was stirring up in the other room. Ya’ can’t blame a kiddo of my age to be curious what was happening, especially when your parents are actin’ up an’ when you look up to both of ‘em to be role models. Anyways, where was I...oh right, as I unlatched the crib open it made a large thwack as it thundered downwards onto the floor, at that time I was only worried if the loud wallop would get me in placed in time out, however oblivious to what seemed to be getting louder and sounding like a really serious argument my parents were getting into about something about a claim? Some shit likes that, heh, at that age I couldn’t even decipher if I dun’ poo’d my undies...only kidding. However I was at that age where I was completely unaware and ignorant to what they were arguing about. I was quite worried about my own well-being and that of my parents if the argument were to go south...turns out the argument was over a tariff over some product that was probably illegal, and my mother wasn't having any of that illegal business anymore, pa' just couldn't rid of his old habits of being a kingpin in his youngin' days. Not a few moments after I sneaked a peak, they were approached by a thug who slipped through the window which was unbolted. Both Ma' and Pa' were acting so very odd after the strange man made them fall to the ground, covered in what seemed to be blood. This fueled a rage in me that would set the very boundaries I seek to find today. Trenches of War. The setting is during Trade War II, which withered Kezan, and Gallywix's favorite bakery, shortly before the Trade War IV. The bakery was destroyed after being bombed during Trade War II, bombed once again during Trade War IV, and finally melted during the Peace War. Backstory: Slummed over on the cold metallic wall, my battered, fatigued, helmet poking above the metal reinforcing of the trench. My rifle slowly slipping from the grip of my hands, falling into my lap...fatigued and tattered, I could not inch another excruciating step , I looked down at my hands to what had me accept as true, a deceased man. I had ached famine, my stomach grumbling more than an in-debt storekeeper. Food was short, only a ration, what little of the precious material we had. I heard a stern, demanding voice scolding at me above, the faint gunshots that lingered for miles. A voice replayed in my head as I stared, unaware and confused as to what was happening. "Git' up, this war ain't goin' to solve its self by you sittin' there!" The private exclaimed. "We need you at that federal reserve tower over at the western flank! Bilgewater's sendin' a counter-attack and we need all we can get over there! On the hop, Move!" I watched as he moved away from my sight. In slight terror, I started to unconsciously tremble. I sluggishly picked up my stock issued rifle, forcing my fatigued body to its feet. Still sternly staring at me, I managed to utter out a few words. "On it, sir!" Heeding to his direction, I quickly shot a salute out to him, hoping that he wouldn't scold me any longer. I had the enough drive to get myself on my two feet and press on headed towards the western flank. The noise of War resonated through the air. I could see the violent explosions from nearly a mile away. I felt myself slowly picking up speed as my feet collided against the dirt. It didn't matter anyway, in my eyes the faster I get there the faster I get out. Before reaching my destination, I was greeted with a forbidding explosion, dropping into the trench in hopes of safety. The blast pounded against my ears, causing an irritating pain. I could feel the floor tremor with the cause of the explosion. I settled myself to the ground and gained a powerful foothold, locking my gun into place in the break of dirt that someone had left, in the severely damaged trench. I fired violently. A goblin dashed at me at bursting speed, undertaking me onto the ground and leaning over my chest. He held me down firmly, breathing heavily through his gas mask. I looked at him in fury and screamed at him. "The hell is wrong with you? Git' the the hell off me!" He ripped off his mask, and shoved it into my face, cackling wildly. Ironically, I could barely breath in the thing. The putrid smell of his sweat and saliva overwhelmed my pointed nose. I struggled for freedom, but the goblin was amazingly strong. Two medium-scaled cylinders fell from a speeding bomber, landing into our trench. The other soldiers screamed as a putrid, yellow gas began to seep out from the containers. They fell to the cold ground like Kezan's economy after Trade War I. The insane goblin fainted, or more likely died, his eyes rolling to the back of his head. His corpse fell on top of me, compressing myself into the floor. I took my forearms and pushed him off, making sure the gas mask was still equipped. I glanced into the crimson sky, spotting a myriad of Bilgewater Bombers. They were circling us like a group of voracious vultures. If this wasn't bad enough, the Bilgewater Soldiers at the other trench were firing relentlessly at us. I looked around the corpse-abounding trench. Private Zom Dreadmaw was around ten meters away from me, struggling to stay away from enemy fire. I looked at the poor kid as a thorium bullet pierced his helmet, his lifeless body descending to the back of the trench. It struck me slowly, but cruel, that I was the last one alive. I shouldn't have, but I curled up into a ball and leaned against the trenches walls, ripping off the gas mask and balling to myself like a baby. Not like that horrible gas was still lingering 'bout anyway. I began having flashbacks upon memories. That's what people do when they're gunna die, right? I thought of Ma and Pa back home at Edj. The friends back home singing their sea songs at Taverns. The massive ships from all over Azeroth. And, especially Kate. She was smokin' hot. I looked back up to the circling bombers, a crimson artillery shell flying straight towards me. I put my face into my lap and curled tighter. The shell hit directly into the trench, my very existence being burnt away. The agonizing pain swept over me, and everything went black... Establishment of Blacksludge The lean on a kings crown... (Tony, the victim of a tragic murder) Funeral, (Open Casket) -WIP-Category:Back story Category:Blacklabel Vendetta